


Truce

by MumblingSage



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Hatesex, M/M, Strange Bedfellows, Trust Issues, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MumblingSage/pseuds/MumblingSage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a burn in the pit of his stomach that might just be from the scotch. It’s strong stuff, even if there’s a damn lot left in his glass.<br/>And their truce isn’t over until he reaches the bottom of it.</p><p>Takes place immediately after 01x05, "Danse Vaudou."  John Constantine has some bad news to process and Linton Midnite has reason to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

Old Midnite’s right about the sour taste of his scotch. It’s coating John’s tongue, it’s so strong it seems to become part of him. It’s nasty enough to wince at, though it probably gets better with each mouthful. Most alcohol does. Most everything does.

Except news from Hell, but he shouldn’t have expected any different.

Today had been going too well, anyway. They’d actually accomplished something, with minimal loss of life and three souls peacefully laid to rest. He envies the bastards. It must be nice to just drift off towards the stars at the end of it all, rather than heading for the other place.

“Any chance your sister’s putting one over us?”

Midnite gives him a look with sharply cocked eyebrows, suggesting the answer is obviously _no_ and the question is exceedingly insulting. Which no doubt is true; John’s never had to work at his bloody talent for giving offense. But then the expression eases out, and Midnite seems to be in a more forgiving mood. He has reason for contentment.  This evening he got to be the hero. It looks like the experience suits him. The drinks, the magnanimous bordering-on-chummy offer to put John through to his mum (maybe _she_ could tell him about the pleasant drifting off in starlight kind of afterlife, now there’s a thought)—a low-key but obvious celebration. More a party than the vaudou proper was at any rate. But John had known they were getting involved in a serious matter as soon as the religion was mentioned. A disrespectful bastard he might be, but he’s not a bloody idiot. He was just bluffing to keep Zed from worrying when the inevitable happened and he ended up missing on her end, and on his in handcuffs for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Not for the first time, either. Speaking of parties…

The thought’s a bluff, too, and equally weak. Meanwhile, the news from Gehenna sounds more like boasting than bluffing.

“Pity,” he mutters. Exhaustion washes over him. And with it, disappointment, all the more bitter from being unexpected for a change. John had hoped today was going to end with more than another dead end—and now here he is, with no more chips to cash in, no reward, no way to move forward. Only a threat from the underworld, if that. Or a taunt. The underworld doesn’t even pay him the compliment of needing to threaten him. _All your efforts are in vain._

The interesting bit, the part his mind worries on like a dog chewing a very dry bone, is this promise of betrayal business. It was a small list of people who were close enough to him and might suddenly turn to backstabbing. A small list only growing smaller. Chas, he could never doubt. Zed—he didn’t want to, she was growing on him. And most of the lot from Newcastle he’d cut ties with, or vice versa. They weren’t around to stab him in the back. Or, for that matter, vice versa.

He can still feel the grip of Gary’s hand, the clammy crush of it that didn’t weaken a jot until the end. Four days of it. Felt like it should have broken his damn fingers.

When he goes to drink more of the scotch, the glass is shaking. He lowers, hoping Midnite hasn’t noticed. “At least I know it isn’t you, mate.”

No, if this one stabs him, it’ll be in the front. And would barely count as a betrayal. Nor does John think it would need heralding from Hell. But Midnite can’t be on the side of the Rising Darkness—he wouldn’t have been so disturbed by the way it twisted his magic if he was, and he wouldn’t have worked so hard to correct it. _More than hard work—he teamed up with me._ Not a sacrifice to be made lightly, John ruefully reflects, or taken for granted.

Maybe he thinks it was worth it, though. His expression now looks neither forgiving nor exultant. In other circumstances John’s comment would amuse him. Now Midnite is—well, John would say he’s gone softer, except that wouldn’t happen, and probably couldn’t look so predatory if it did.

He sits across from him, a man in an expensive suit poised on cinderblocks as if they’re a throne. He moves with the grace of someone in perfect control, and it’s mesmerizing, really. At least that’s one of the reasons why, when he reaches out, John doesn’t flinch.

And then it’s too late for that; long fingers rest at his cheek and temple, and Midnite’s thumb is at the corner of his eye. Remembering his too-vivid experience with the Mist, John suppresses panic. The touch is gentle, intrusive but not threatening. The warm pressure of the pad of Midnite’s thumb stroking his lower eyelid stills a twitching muscle. It’s not entirely comfortable, though; with a wet sting, another stroke chases a tear down. Midnite catches it and releases him.

Blinking, John watches him raise his hand to his mouth. Their eyes meet for a moment. Then John’s drop to see the glimpse of tongue sliding out, slowly licking the drop away.

This isn’t magic in any sort of modality. It’s a hell of a lot more complicated.

There’s a burn in the pit of his stomach that might just be from the scotch. It’s strong stuff, even if there’s a damn lot left in his glass.

And their truce isn’t over until he reaches the bottom of it.

Linton Midnite’s upper lip forms a perfect cupid’s bow, which is the drippy kind of detail John only ever notices in moments like these.

“I hadn’t thought we’d be getting to that,” he says, in a voice as wry as the whiskey. Tensions today ran a little high for it. He can still feel the imprint of that bloody great turquoise ring on his jaw. But then, tensions running high seems to be their modus operandi. What happened in Chicago was especially bad, rivalry turned to outright antagonism, but not for the first time.

It’s not like they’re kiss and cuddle types, John thinks as he kisses him anyway.

Running his tongue against the crease of Midnite’s lips, he can almost catch a lingering taste of salt. He sweeps in as if he’s trying to reclaim it, only to get lost in heat—burning like whiskey, like the cherry glowing at the end of a cigarette.

He feels muscle tighten beneath his hands, which he’s braced on Midnite’s thigh and shoulder as if to keep his balance. He likes having the sense of his reaction; whatever happens, at least he’ll have forewarning before the other man moves.

There’s no word for what this is, or how they came to be suck in it. John’s theory is that he’s got under Linton Midnite’s skin in a way that requires a very particular scratching for the itch. If it were any comfort, he could have told the man he isn’t the first one it’s happened to.

As it happens, the forewarning does no good. He feels the other man moving but is caught up in it too quickly to resist if he wanted to. They’re rising, crossing the room—at least Midnite is crossing the room, and John is following because two fingers have hooked under the band of his necktie and pull him along. When he sputters for breath, he finds it easily; the grip is at once humiliating and elegant without any risk of choking him.

He appreciates that. It wouldn’t quite be right to say he admires it. Midnite gets under John’s skin, too, and it’s bloody embarrassing. The fact that he’s already growing hard between his stumbling legs is embarrassing, and even better was the tear he can still feel being teased from his eye and licked away. No surprise Midnite relished that. He can never get enough of John’s—not weakness, not exactly. Worse. Defeat.

Must be sweet to the taste, at least if you haven’t had time to grow bored of it. Almost as sweet as Midnite’s own successes today, a vindication. The magpie’s compromise of powers have been compromised; there’s a limit to whatever works, at least if you believe Hell. As of course they both do.

Another kiss, this one rough, almost perfunctory. Midnite does it with disdain, like snuffing a cigar he doesn’t intend to finish. But he does a gallingly good job of it. John strains after his lips and tongue, even when meeting them means forcing his sore jaw open wider. Midnite’s hand is at the scruff of his neck, not a collar anymore but a cushion, shielding the back of his head. It keeps him from braining himself as they finally hit the wall. 

Midnite unbuttons and removes his jacket, folding it aside in a continuation of the single smooth motion. John is more rushed and more awkward, untucking Midnite’s cravat with a jerk, ducking out of his own tie and letting it fall. His belt is loosened, his shirt pulled up as a warm hand runs under it, fingers following his spine in a way that makes him swallow a sound that would have said too much. Midnite’s breath smells faintly of the scotch, while his body carries the tang of sweat and an oddly pleasant underlying musk. John wonders if he wears cologne. And their clothes and flesh are all permeated with the background odors of smoke, ozone, the airless scent of magic.

“We didn’t do too badly today, huh?” John asks. Hell, he’s part of the celebration, too; might as well invite himself in.

Midnite doesn’t answer, but by listening intently John thinks he catches his small moan at the rasp of his stubble over his skin. Which he must think is a better use of the street wizard’s mouth than questions.

John’s trousers are sliding down, and he feels the kiss of his cock straining against his stomach.

He’s an unrepentant opportunist, and right at the moment he’s enjoying it. With defeat snapping out of the jaws of victory and everything. It’s not over yet. Maybe it’s the promise of sex to which he owes thanks for this moment of optimism, but he thinks Midnite will understand. He’s revealed his share of opportunism, too. Not just in the way his hand is currently gliding towards John’s pelvis. The First of the Fallen’s contribution to musical history—John has the idea suddenly, in a cold wash that doesn’t drive lust out—is hardly the usual tool of a vaudou priest. Midnite’s also crossing modalities. John can’t blame him; not only would it be hypocritical, but he knows something of the man’s history. He knows all about being powerless, and escaping it, and doing anything to keep from repeating the experience.

Not an unexpected point of vulnerability, John considers while his tongue attacks another one and wins a clearer moan. Just because he understands it, though, doesn’t mean he’d let Midnite—say—get away with murder. Every magician should have someone to keep him in line. John likes to think he’s providing Midnite with a professional courtesy (he doesn’t like to think about who’s around to take that job for himself).

And speaking of professional courtesy, what the hell _was_ going on in Chicago? He’d ask if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, and if he wasn’t quite literally in the grip of more urgent matters. Offending Midnite now might end with some very vulnerable parts being crushed. Or just abandoned, which isn’t any less awful a proposition. John would do anything—including saying nothing—just to keep those fingers cupping and stroking.

After all, this isn’t the first time he’s slept with someone he suspects might try to kill him. Next to the succubus he’d nicked a breath of Hades from, this is purely amiable.

They _should_ come together roughly at this point, but they don’t. The hands on John’s skin aren’t gentle but they’re not vicious, either. Midnite finds brutality beneath him, even if he might think John deserves it, and while he certainly likes to be in control, he also knows there’s a point to let it go. He isn’t pushy—he doesn’t have to be. John is putty in his hands, obediently shifting his arms to remove his shirt. He’s the next thing to naked now, which is a relief in the hot night, which is just what he needs. As he presses a hand to Midnite’s shoulder, pushing down a sleeve, he glimpses the watch on his own wrist. Might as well keep that handy should yet more handcuffs appear.

He knows Midnite has a moral code, but he’s not a trusting lamb. He’s only willing to rely so much on the man’s professional respect. Particularly because he knows the man doesn’t respect him; he’s spelled out his objections to John Constantine’s practice with exacting clarity. It was something else that kept John alive in Chicago. Maybe his entertainment value. Or maybe Midnite really does believe that John Constantine’s death would be enough of a loss to the world that killing him would count against one’s immortal soul.

So when his hand—warm, firm—grips John’s throat, his pulse spikes from arousal, not fear. Perhaps a little fear. It’s not comforting (but then, surely none of this is meant to be comforting). Yet John trusts him. He doesn’t fight the grip, which as it happens is just to hold him still for another kiss.

The rings are still on his fingers; John feels one imprinting against the underside of his jaw. The metallic chime of jewelry makes all his hairs stand on end. His shoulders are flat against crumbling brick, and little shudders that he can’t stop are running through them. Electric jolts hop down his spine. His body knows what this means, and doesn’t care that the man giving it to him might have tried to kill him a few months ago; might still be planning to for all he knows. Whatever Linton Midnite values more than John Constantine’s life—to be realistic, probably a lot of things—it’s not on the table tonight. It won’t happen yet. After all, they have a truce.

His palm feels smooth as a glove as it runs over his hips and arse, hotter than the night air, which has become a pleasant temperature now that John doesn’t have to do anything but feel it. There’s something almost erotically luxurious about it. No wonder this city is what it is. His senses feel smothered in velvet and silk and gold and all the other richness John’s never had a need for. He’s not about to start needing. Not even if every nerve in him strains for it.

And it does. Midnite observes this with a smirk.

At their first encounter he had thought Linton Midnite was almost too fastidious for sex, a bit of the parish pastor air around him, as if undressing was kinky enough. That impression he was quickly disabused of.

 _“I can be gentle.”_ The words, with a lilting mockery on the last two syllables, jump to the base of his spine and he can’t tell if they were said aloud or only echo in his memory. They’ve negotiated in the past— John has asked “What’s your pleasure, mate?” and received answers that weren’t  gentle at all. Maybe he should decide on a safeword one of these days. But if Midnite’s going to harm him, really harm him, it isn’t going to be through sex, and muttering _Red_ or whatever wouldn’t be what stops him.

He’s flushing now as he remembers nipping the perfect fingers currently tracing over his body, remembers fighting as they shoved into his mouth after he’d been made to beg for them. He doesn’t know if Midnite’s a sadist, a sadomasochist, or just fucked up. Doesn’t have any such answers about himself, either.

But despite past roughness, despite the mocking offers of gentleness, despite everything, tonight his touch is slow and rich and indulgent (or, like the rest of his magnanimous hospitality, triumphant). It makes sense. He’s savoring his successes today. And he’s savoring how John’s about to fall apart.

Fall apart? Oh yes. The promise of betrayal still echoes in his ears and he’s afraid, he’s balls-shriveling terrified—except for the part where his balls aren’t shriveling, bad metaphor and _thanks for that, mate_ —and what he’s really afraid of having shrivel is his courage. He’s failed enough that it doesn’t bother him; what he fears is the day he stops trying. When it no longer seems to be worth it. That was what landed him in Ravenscar.

Midnite’s never mentioned the institutionalization, but he has to know about. He knows all about Astra, it seems. And so it’s no fucking wonder that any professional respect he’s ever had for John is gone now—that failure of responsibility is one he’s never had any patience with. He’s right, too. He at least has done what is necessary to resolve the consequences of his own magic, and thinking along these lines might bring John dangerously close to admiring or at least congratulating him. Although he always gets soft on whoever is doing _that_ to his cock. Soft emotionally, of course. Bad metaphor again.

He tries to concentrate more on bodies and less on souls, because he and Linton Midnite were not put on this earth to be each other’s spiritual advisors. Even the Powers That Be are not that sick. But at this point everything has become instinctual, almost taking care of itself—they’ve had more practice at sex than at combining magic, anyway, though ‘team work’ will never enter their vocabulary—and Midnite had to know John would be a bad fuck tonight when he started this. Maybe he even enjoys his complete failure to be more than a distracted bundle of twitching reactions. Maybe the abjectly miserable helpless bliss gets him off.

“Like that, yeah?” John pants, not receiving any answer in words, probably not even coherent. His hips are rocking, meeting the other man’s as they grind together with as much gentleness as the wall against his back. If it’s possible to find luxury in something like this, John’s doing it, because it is in fact getting him off.

At least he knows he won’t fail at this. He knows just what to do. John licks his palm and with an old practiced twist begins to stroke their cocks together. Midnite makes a sound as he presses into his fist that suggests he finds this as frustrating as John does, or at least that he’s finding friction. Friction rather being the point.

Then two of his fingers have found the sweet spot behind John’s balls and are curling there. They do know all each other’s weak spots. John always needs a little something extra, now more than ever, but here it is and damn him, it works.

He feels the sticky flood against his stomach and thighs, pungent saltiness teasing his nostrils. He slumps against the wall, breathing hard. Despite the stickiness, he feels almost clean. But he doesn’t refuse the handkerchief Midnite retrieves from one jacket pocket and offers brusquely. It’s made of something so soft that he gets ticklish as he scrubs his skin. He hands it back with a nod of thanks and hides any smile when Midnite pinches it between his fingertips.

They get dressed in silence, not helping each other. A taste has gathered at the back of John’s mouth, sweetish rather than sour, and his shirt sticks to his back with sweat the moment he pulls it on. He leaves it half unbuttoned, knowing he’s not going to cool off any.

Midnite looks perfectly composed, and has settled on his cinderblock perch again with enviable poise. He sips at his scotch, watching John over the rim.

He tries to find something to say. “Just what I needed,” he settles on at last, sitting beside the other man.

“I thought you might.” Midnite seems to address the observation to the far side of the room, but he murmurs it with poorly-hidden relish. Then he turns to John, expression becoming more sober. He says softly, “I would have hoped for better news from my sister.”

After that, he again seems uncertain where to look. It’s as awkward as John has ever seen him.

John clears his throat. “I’ll drink to that.” He raises the whiskey to his lips and breathes in the fumes, almost as heady as magic. But suddenly it becomes too heady, too rich for his blood. One can have too much of a good thing.

He catches Midnite’s eyes and holds the gaze as he pours the glass out in the dirt.

The man’s nostrils flair, his mouth tightening just as his lips seem about to curve. He’s insulted, of course; annoyed, of course, but also amused. What else could he have expected?

“Then our truce is over,” he says.

“It is.” John stands, stretches slightly as if his muscles haven’t been worked out enough. “I’ll be going, then.”

Standing also, Midnite nods. The grip of his hand on John’s shoulder is swift and tight enough to bruise. Then he pours out the rest of his own drink—over John’s face, letting it pour into his startled open mouth and drizzle down his throat. His tongue follows, lapping some of the burn away. It stings on John’s cheeks and neck, abraded from blows and stubble that rasps him even now. He sucks the last drop away with sharpness that will leave a mark.

Then he lets him go and leaves the room without looking back. Staggering until he finds balance, John runs his sleeve across his face and tries to decide how much he wants to get dressed before going out himself.

His heart is hammering again, jumping like an excited creature trying to batter its way out of his ribcage. Somewhere in one of his pockets is his packet of Silk Cuts, although he doesn’t feel composed enough to reach for them yet. But he’s survived another night.

“Right,” he says. “All right.”

It is, oddly enough. At least for now, it is.


End file.
